


Under Punches

by thirtycenturyman



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Airplanes, Airports, Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale is a mess but a useful one of that, Crowley doesn't give two shits about ""authority"" lol, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Holy Water, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, References to Drugs, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:50:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19397347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtycenturyman/pseuds/thirtycenturyman
Summary: Our favourite idiots have a bit of a mix-up at an airport.





	Under Punches

**Author's Note:**

> Context: Aziraphale and Crowley are on their way to an exchange of holy water with some other entity idk there's technically no P L O T

A mutual feeling of fatigue landed between the insufferable companions, a sheer mix of Post-Floridian-style jet lag and the rancid hogwash this airline dares call 'food'. Their plane dropped back at Heathrow on your average bleak afternoon. A warm welcome in Aziraphale's books at least. Crowley, however, took advantage of this lethargy and fell into a pseudo-realistic sleep as the plane touched down.

"Crowley, dearest, we- oh, how mature. You know, you really know how to make an entrance. Exit, at least." 

"Hmm."

"Holy water isn't a laughing matter, you darling cretin. You're aware we'll be really rather late to the exchange? And that it'll be up to you to explain the stupidity behind our tardiness-"

Clearly cognized behind the glasses, the reptilian planted a soft kiss on Aziraphale's bottom lip, which dragged on for a little bit. The angel's furious blush which admittedly carried onto his own complexion pulled a chuckle from wherever the hell demons get short, sweet laughs from. 

"All in good time, angel."

Aziraphale huffed in awfully hidden adoration and turned his head up to the cabin's baggage holders, anticipating the flickers of freedom, getting pernickety in the space of the right hand aisle seat.

______________________________________

The terminal is generally speaking a direct mix of the gates to heaven and down under (their trip to Australia was an interesting one, indeed). See, aspects of heaven include the shining white and marble of the interior, combined with the hellish queues and flight delays. Neither had seen purgatory but this could well be it.

The safety inspection of bags was an experience of sorts for Aziraphale; the simplicity of the human paranoia was something he'd only read of in books from his medical section. To see people really be so concerned with the amount of hair conditioner or length of scissors one brings across borders is a fine but ever mundane ordeal to sacred eyes. 

He got the all-clear from the security guards, and stood patiently at the side of the metal detectors. 

A minute turned into two, and adamance into anxiety. 

He peeked past the walls of the detector to see a large man with a suitcase, followed by two girls and their baby, but no Crowley. 

_No Crowley? He was right behind me!_

What occurred to him a bit too late was that he had fundamentally been facing some kind of interrogational corner. Standing with his arms at his sides, flopping in the air with his "God, this is just taking the piss" face, was the shitfaced snake man. 

Aziraphale took his case by the hand and marched over in morbid fascination. 

"Hands by your sides please, sir. Turn around with your back facing me."

As the officer's gloved hands clambored over his shoulders, Crowley spotted the holy entity.

"Good grief, Anthony, what have you gotten your ludicrous self into now?"

The officer muttered while patting his black clad ankles, "Your partner's been caught with an illicit substance and we're investigating, now please escort yourself to the baggage area, sir."

Aziraphale clearly wasn't expecting any of this, and the paranoia of humanity suddenly made sense. Sort of. 

"Christ, Aziraphale, you heard the woman, don't look so taken aback. I'll be there in a sodding minute, after they discover I have no sort of, well, _evil_ on me."

His wink on the word 'evil' was a dead giveaway - holy water. Of course! Human beings could easily liken it to liquid cyanide, with their futile, stupid little mortal bodies. 

"Ah, I see. If you don't mind me asking a few questions, officer-" 

_Snap_. 

Her hands fell frozen to her sides and she stood up in a totally neutral position, allowing Crowley to return to normal. Being back to normal, naturally, included his hopelessness whenever he plays witness to Aziraphale's schemes.

"Mind play? Now?" 

Aziraphale continued as he rolled his eyes, "Now officer, you, as a matter of fact, believe the substance found in Mr Crowley's luggage to be fully legal. It is not holy water, neither, oh, whatever drugs people take, cocaine and the like-" 

"Coke's a powder, love."

"Right. Err, instead it's the legal amount of, um, shampoo-" 

"Shampoo? 'Course she'll believe that."

"...in summary, it's all very legal, and Mr. Crowley is free to go." 

_Snap._

The officer caught up with her conscience and returned to the desks in a daze. 

"Ach, cheers, angel. I owe you the world," he muttered with a goofy smile he tried to shy away as he straightened his clothes out

"Well, I suppose the world includes cake, and there's an excellent pâtissière I'm rather familiar with we could try out."

Crowley frowned as a result of a compressed laugh. "Go on then, you marvelous fruit."


End file.
